Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,

  Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.

Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,

  The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

 

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry

  I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;

Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:

  Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

 

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,

  I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:

  Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

 

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;

  All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:

Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--

  Oh why did I awake?  when shall I sleep again?